Carnage
by xReaderx
Summary: AU. In the year 2023, a virus struck, a virus that wiped out most of humanity, leaving a mob of the walking dead. Sylar is alone, looking for a reason to live. To his misfortune, he finds one.
1. Prologue: Over

**Shenanigans: So, I solemnly swear I will finish my other story. I just got out of school ('tis ridiculous, I know), and I am almost done with the next chapter for it. But, this was bouncing around in my head, and I wrote it quickly and it might be kind of bad. But I have a thing for zombies. **

**If I continue this, it will end up being Sylar/Claire. There will be some bumps and twists. But ya know.**

**I was sort of inspired by the song 'Closer' by Kings of Leon. Has nothing to do with zombies, but it was this end of the world vibe to me. I love the song, so if you feel so inclined, please do have a listen. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or the concept of a zombie apocalypse. I'm sure there will be certain zombie themes that occur that have occurred before whether by accident or on purpose. I'll try to note if its on purpose. **

**Enjoy! **

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><p><em>Carnage<em>

_Prologue: Over_

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><p>There it was. The stench. The smell of soiled flesh and old blood.<p>

His nose twitched imperceptibly—not that there was anyone to perceive it. As far as Sylar knew, he was the last man on earth.

His grip tightened around the cool surface of his handgun, the only possession he still held dear if only for the fact that it was his lifeline and his last connection to the world before it had ended. The gun had belonged to Noah Bennett. Call him vindictive, but even in Sylar's years as a changed man, he could not resist the small satisfaction he would glean from stealing Noah's gun upon their first 'reuniting.' He had not seen Noah since that reunion, and he had a feeling he never would.

A strange gurgling sound vibrated the air, and he had no doubt as to why. He edged his way along the cement wall of the abandoned gas station, silent as the grave. He had to resist laughter at the thought; otherwise, he would give himself away. He came to the wall's corner, and with a deep breath, he lunged around the edge, gun held steady in both hands as he spotted it: a woman, late twenties, blonde hair, nice figure, dressed for a summer night out. He narrowed his eyes and with a slow exhale, he pulled the trigger. A shot sliced the air, and she screeched one last time as the bullet hit her square in the forehead. She tumbled backwards, lifeless once more.

Sylar remained frozen for several vital seconds, heart beating raucously as he listened for any others. Upon hearing none, he stood, weapon still in hand as he drew closer to the gore. The victim was a male. By the smock, Sylar assumed he was a worker at the gas station. A redhead, skinny, a lot of freckles. Sylar watched him, waiting for any movement; there was none. Still, as a precaution, he aimed towards his head and released a shot for security. He glanced briefly at the blond, but he thought better than to waste bullets. He gave one last scan to the surrounding area and finally tucked his gun into the back of his jeans, turning back towards his motorcycle.

The images were burned into his memory, just like every other damn picture. The blonde had been kneeling over the redhead, hands plunged into his stomach as she pulled out his innards, tearing with bloody teeth at the material like a dog. She herself had on obvious bite wound on her shoulder; the poor girl had been a victim, too, and Sylar had happened upon them while filling up his gas tank. While he wasn't the ruthless killer type any longer, he had developed some sense of obligation to humanity, so when he did find himself in the circumstance to put one of the creatures down, he did because he was sure if he had been in the same situation, he would hope someone would do the same.

Sylar filled his tank after syphoning an abandoned car (no gas station he'd come to had had any gas left) and afterward trudged through the wreckage of the station to throw some food in the luggage compartment on the back of his motorcycle. The bike itself wasn't too bad. It was a black affair that roared like a lion as he sped down the empty roads, though Sylar had to admit he had no knowledge of bikes or bike types and didn't have time to learn when the necessity for one rose. All he knew was basic driving skills from something he'd read in passing years ago, and that was enough for his survival.

After covering all the fundamentals, he took a second to breathe, leaning heavily against one of the pumps, convincing himself that it was still worth it to keep going, to keep fighting; maybe he was human kind's last great hope. Maybe he was the last reproductive male on earth, and he'd have to help rebuild the population. Maybe he'd have to lead the way when this great mess was over.

Over. He had to laugh at himself. Out in the desert in the middle of nowhere, Sylar had to remind himself that 'over' had already happened. What was left was everything after 'over.'

The virus had struck with hardly any notice in the year 2023. The first reported cases were in Germany. A man dead from a heart attack woke in the morgue and bit the doctor on duty. They sedated him and placed him in tight restraints in the mental ward, but he continued to snarl and bare his teeth at anything with a pulse. One day, a schizophrenic patient in the ward wandered into the man's bedroom, as her supervisor had been on the phone discussing his divorce, and the patient was also bitten. The two bitten were perfectly normal for four days, showing no signs of illness. But, on the fifth day, they woke with blood shot eyes and chest pain. The bitten doctor immediately sought treatment, and under intense observation for days six and seven, other doctors watched as their colleague's heart slowly but surely stopped, though he remained completely awake and alert: alive. However, in his eyes was a lack of recognition, a glazed expression, a stupidity. Within seconds, he was rabid as the doctors hadn't thought to restrain him; he bit two more. A similar occurrence happened with the schizophrenic patient, and it wasn't long before there was an outbreak in Germany.

But, the outbreak didn't end there. Soon, it was in Poland, Austria, France. It made its way to Spain and Portugal, finally crossing continents into Morocco and its neighbors. International air transportation was halted to prevent spread, but it was too late. The first case was in Quebec, and it was over for North and South America.

There it was again, that word: over.

He remembered how the news reports had started in the early stages: urgent, red banners flashing danger zones and threat levels, people running furiously in the backgrounds of anxious reporters, a 24/7 nightmare for the media. But, a few months into the pandemic, and the news started to dwindle. There were less people in the background, a heavier sadness to the reporters. Half a year into it, and there were almost none left. The last one Sylar had heard was a local station in Indiana, the young female reporter with tears in her eyes saying:

"_I've been bitten…This is the last report for me and for the station. Hell, it might be the last one in the world. So, if I am the last face of recorded humanity, I must urge you all to survive. To keep fighting. No matter what happens after now. I'm Gabrielle Higgins…Goodnight." _

It was sappy and pathetic, but in the face of the apocalypse, the Gabrielle's lack of eloquence under pressure was all Sylar had left; that had been the last voice he had heard, and that was a year and a half ago. It was the only hope he had, and if it kept him alive, then so be it.

Finally, he found the will to move. Sylar pushed himself off the pump and trotted over to the earlier massacre. Careful to not breathe, he dragged the blonde by her lifeless hands towards the car he'd taken gas from; he did the same to the redhead. Using a hose, he syphoned more gasoline out of the car and drenched the bodies, hot tears running down his cheeks. Kneeling, he drew himself close to the blonde's face, staring into her cold green eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her temple.

"I'm sorry this happened to you."

He stood and pulled a lighter out of his pocket, swiftly rolling the switch and watching the gentle flame before dropping it on the pair (he had another packed away) and saw their bodies ignite, the stench growing even more foul. He waited anyway.

Sylar could not understand how it happened, but he had grown sentimental. He knew an apocalypse could do that to you, but he had been like that before the end. He had suddenly become caring, and that caring had turned into a respect for the sanctity of life when the end of humanity had come. Perhaps because it was 2025 and he had yet to encounter life again. Either way, he found himself standing there, quiet, watching the passing of these two strangers' lives into the next world because he felt that every human being deserved it; every person deserved to have the end of his or her life marked. Otherwise, it was like you never existed.

He stayed until the fire began to smolder; it had grown darker. Sylar returned to his motorcycle and hopped onto its seat, allowing the bike to roar to life as he disappeared down the empty road.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Please review!<strong>


	2. Bhai

**Author shenanigans: So I'm almost done with updates for my other stories. I swear. I just got inspired for this, and I've had half of it written literally for a year, so I'm going to try and keep it going. **_  
><em>

**There were some questions raised about why Sylar doesn't just use his abilities to kill zombies...Well, I'll explain that in chapters to come. **

**Not really sure where this story is going...should be fun. **

**Thanks for the reviews, alerts, etc! **

**Carry on!**

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><p><em>Chapter 1. Bhai<em>

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><p><em>The two men sat across from each other at the kitchen table. It was almost humorous: two adults in chic suits, one black and one tan, with the grace of trained assassins sitting in a kitchen full of blue flowered curtains (Lauren had taken some liberties upon moving in). Both wore grim expressions, though one was less hostile than the other. <em>

_Noah Bennet sighed, removing his horn-rimmed glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sy…Gabriel," he started, "even if…even though you…" He put his glasses back on. "You still have a lot to pay for, a lot to rectify." _

_Sylar…Gabriel nodded. "I know," he answered, a weariness carrying his voice. "I just…I have to start somewhere, and I figured you're one of the best to start with." _

_Noah bit his lip if only to retain his frustration. "I understand, and I…" He hesitated. Did he really? "I…" He…He had to try anyway. "I…f-forgive you." _

_Gabriel released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Th-thank you." He felt ridiculous tears in his eyes, and he was grateful when he heard knocking at the front door. _

_Noah swiftly stood, loudly scooting his chair backward, a curse flying from his lips. He slipped past Gabriel down the hallway to his front door, and that's when Gabriel saw it. _

_The gun. Sitting simply on the counter as if it were a piece of paper or napkin. _

_Gabriel glanced over his shoulder, and Noah opened the door; he was furiously whispering something to an unidentified person. He returned his attention to the gun. God, he hated that thing. He had no doubt it had shot him on more than one occasion. Why did Noah still have it? On second thought, what did he need it for anymore? _

_Gabriel lifted his hand in the air, and with a thought, the gun quietly soared to his open palm. He discreetly tucked it into the back of his pants, not quite sure of what or why. _

_The door closed and an extra set of footsteps trotted in: heels. Suddenly, they stopped, and he heard her voice for the first time in a year. _

"_Dad, what is he doing here?" _

_Gabriel was on his feet, boisterously scraping the chair like Noah and turning to see an angry Claire next to her father. _

"_Claire! I, uhm, I…" He wanted to say he was sorry—for everything. Sorry for scaring her. Sorry for torturing her. Sorry for hurting her. But, he said none of these things. It wasn't part of the plan. He had decided to visit his victims according to how guilty he really felt (it was a poor system, but it was the easiest one to follow), and she was last because….well, he felt worst about what he had done to her. _

_Yet, there she was, screwing with the system. _

_Her mouth hung open in shock, her brow furrowed in anger, her nose curled in disgust—so many foul emotions all wrapped in one expression. "Dad, why is he here?" _

_Noah released another long sigh, pushing a reluctant Claire forward into the room, though she seemed more likely to jump into a pit of snakes before sitting at the same table as him. "He came to apologize," Noah explained, slightly mocking. "He's on a…journey for…redemption, and he came to apologize to me for everything he's done." _

_Gabriel could visibly see her jaw clench, maybe even a vein pop in her forehead, as Noah sat her at the opposite end of the table. "You're joking, right?" _

"_Claire, I'm really trying to—"_

"_Shut up!" she snapped, quickly silencing Gabriel. "You…you don't get to talk to me." _

"_But I—"_

"_Gabriel." It was a low, guttural growl from Noah, and he had the sense to follow it, lest the man take back his word and the whole expedition be for naught. _

_Claire glanced between the two men, incredulous eyes unable to believe. "G-Gabriel?" she spat. "Seriously? Dad, what the hell—"_

_His hand rested on her shoulder, and she was quiet. "Claire…it's…it's time to move on." _

_She blinked, once, twice. Her lips trembled with the weight of her words. "Tell that to my mother and father," she whispered. "Tell that to…to…Hiro Nakamura and Matt Parkman and…God, who else has he killed or almost killed Dad?" _

_She stood, banging her thigh hard on the edge of the table as she made her way to leave, her presence just a quick blip that seemed longer than it really was. Gabriel was still standing and stupidly reached out for her arm as she passed, her smooth skin tensing under his touch. _

"_Claire, please—"_

_She released an angry cry and swung her hand around hard, palm smacking his cheek. He released her. "Don't you **dare **touch me ever again!" _

_Claire stomped all the way out of the apartment, slamming the door for perfect effect. _

_The two men found themselves alone again with the blue flowered curtains. Gabriel tentatively grazed his cheek with his fingertips, feeling the red irritation begin to ebb and heal. He swallowed a dry mouth and did not face Noah. _

"_I really am sorry for…for all the pain I've caused you." _

_Noah was still. "Me too. I mean, I'm sorry…for what I made you into…"_

_A smile twitched the corners of Gabriel's mouth, but it was there and gone in a second. _

_Without a word, he left the Bennet apartment, never to see the man again._

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><p>Sylar woke soundlessly, his eyes merely opening as the earliest light of the sun rose on the horizon, orange and pink in nature. He took a deep breath, listening for danger. With none, he listened for life: still nothing.<p>

He'd tried convincing himself that he didn't really need anyone to survive. He actually had succeeded for a while and found great relief in not meeting another soul for miles and miles. However, when the miles turned into months, and the months reached a year, he began to question himself. Sure, he didn't _need _anyone to physically survive, but he was starting to see that he did need people, if not to be his companions or friends then to just be there for the sake of his sanity. It was like the time he'd been locked away in his own mind, alone with an empty city full of empty buildings. To hear voices, to hear laughter or tears or a heartbeat, would have been a blessing he'd been wishing for.

Sylar's breath was stifled with the pain of longing. He wondered why he should keep going, why he should bother fighting anymore. What was the point? There was nothing left, no trace of human life. Hell, he hadn't even heard a bird for months. There was nothing but him and the earth. What if he just laid there and never moved, let his body decay from hunger and thirst, let the sun weather his skin? Surely he'd die. He would have to eventually, right? One day, he would close his eyes, and finally just succumb to the darkness.

"No," he croaked, voice butchered from disuse. "No…Get up…Go…Get up. Now."

He threw off the blanket he had, rolling it up to stick back in the compartment on the motorcycle's end. He hadn't made any sort of camp; he'd just rolled up his jacket for a pillow and wrapped himself in the blanket. He grabbed a bag of dehydrated fruit and ate half of it before he pulled out a toothbrush and toothpaste and a bottle of water for rinsing. After brushing his teeth and placing everything back in the compartment, he hopped on his motorcycle and headed back towards the road to continue his seemingly pointless journey.

Sylar was not looking for anything in particular. Just people. He'd been living in New York when the outbreak started, and he'd had the sense to get the hell out of dodge. After laying low throughout several New England states, he'd finally come to the conclusion that everyone was dead or a dead man walking, and he'd headed west. He had found a group or two along the way, and he'd even managed to stay with one for a short period before they were attacked one night while sleeping; Sylar saved three, but they fell off one by one in some accident or another until he was alone again. However, while he'd been traveling, he learned a few rumors. One was that Alaska remained untouched, but many dismissed this idea because even if it were true, there was no possible way to make that kind of trip. Another was that the islands like Jamaica, Cuba, the Dominican Republic and Haiti were still safe, but alas, how would they make such a trip? Sylar had gone so far with his group as to make it to a supposed disease-free zone in Tennessee up in the mountains, but it turned out to be what everyone had feared: just a rumor. He was convinced it was all talk and pipe dreams created by ringleaders to motivate a bunch of lost souls. Even if there were any havens, Sylar could not ignore the probability of finding them if they existed: extremely unlikely.

The rode seemed unending as the desert sun rose higher and higher. Sylar knew he was in the northern half of Texas heading west. Always west. That's what the frontiersmen had done, and that's what he would do. There was something nostalgic about the notion as well as something quite ironic. He revved up his engine to drown out the thought. He grinded his wheels faster and faster against the increasingly dilapidated road, throttle whining.

How long had it been since morning? How long since he'd eaten something? How long since he'd drunk anything? He had to be well into the afternoon. He glanced at his gas meter, which was growing closer and closer to empty. He always liked to have enough left for a good escape if it was necessary, so he decided that he would head into the next town for gas. He needed to resupply his food and water anyway.

Sylar finally turned off the interstate, decreasing his speed more and more to quiet the engine. Rusted signs pointed him down a turnoff to a gas station. It was a small town; it reminded him of one you might see in a horror film—all wooden fences and squeaking tire swings. He was cautious as he approached the station; he could already see one lifeless corpse dragging busted limbs about. He gently gripped the break, and the bike slowly came to a stop within a good distance of the creature. He pulled his gun out of his jacket pocket and swiftly aimed and shot his target. The walker fell; it hadn't even noticed him. Sylar did a sweep of the area, checking around and under abandoned cars. He could see further off a few of the dead heading towards him down the road; he would just have to be quick. He checked the pumps, and as usual, there was no gas. However, when he grabbed a hose from his motorcycle compartment to syphon gas from the cars, there was nothing left in the abandoned few either.

With a heavy sigh, Sylar threw the hose back onto his motorcycle. He stood for a moment rubbing his temples, the sounds of the approaching walkers growing louder every second. He gave up on the notion of gas and decided to slip inside the convenience store to find water and food.

The bell above the door sounded like an explosion as he slid in. He ignored his instincts take it slow and check the place out before scavenging; he didn't have the time. Like all the other stores he'd been to, there were a lot of empty shelves and a lot of scattered stock on the floor. He found a bag of sunflower seeds and another of gummy bears; there wasn't much else. He looked in the freezers for water, but there were only expired Starbucks iced coffees. He grunted in frustration, but just as he was about to turn around and run out to his motorcycle, he heard the distinctive click of a loaded gun ready to fire.

Sylar turned his head and down the aisle standing with a rifle in his arms was a skinny Indian boy, shaking uncontrollably. He muttered something in a language Sylar didn't understand. He was maybe fourteen or fifteen with an electrified fear in his eyes.

Sylar raised his hands, one of which held the packages of 'food' and the other which held his gun. "I'm—" His voice cracked harshly, and he swallowed dry air. "My…my name's…Gabriel…" he said as the boy continued staring him down, tremulous as a small animal. "I'm…I'm just traveling through…I was looking for supplies and…" He had a thought. "Are you…are you alone?"

The boy said nothing; his frown was permanent.

Sylar tried again. "What's your name?"

Not a word. He simply kept his gun trained on Sylar's chest.

He let out a sigh as he took a step forward. "Look, kid, I'm not gonna—"

"STAY BACK, YOU GAANDU!" the boy screeched in a thick accent. "Do you not realize what you have done?"

Even though Sylar knew he had just been insulted, even though he knew he should be afraid, he couldn't help but feel absolutely relieved at hearing another voice.

"What are you smiling about, bakland?"

Sylar shook his head, brow furrowed. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what you mean—"

The boy screamed what Sylar assumed was a curse word, and he closed the distance in between he and Sylar in a few short steps, pressing the rifle against Sylar's chest.

"You shot the gun!" the boy babbled angrily, mingling both English and Hindi. "You shot it! Now they're coming out of hiding! They're coming for us!"

Sylar was beyond bewildered. "What are you—"

A sudden thud against the refrigerator glass startled both of them; a walker was clawing against it, trying to reach Sylar and him. It was missing the entire right side of its face, and brain tissue was easily exposed. The boy was shaking worse than ever. He was torn between shooting the walker and shooting Sylar. Just as Sylar was about to try negotiating with the boy again, a loud moan caught his attention, and a woman's corpse suddenly appeared from behind the racks, reaching for the Indian.

Without a thought, Sylar righted his gun in his hand and shot just past the boy's head, barely missing his ear and hitting the walker's forehead. The boy screamed, and the shock caused him to accidentally pull the trigger. Sylar was knocked off his feet from the force of the rifle, and he grunted as he hit the floor. The boy released another sound and a series of curse words as he looked from the walker behind him to Sylar; he stared in horror, terrified of what he'd just done.

However, death just never quite took to Sylar. He couldn't resist the tiny smirk on his lips as he looked up at the shaking boy, whose eyes grew wider than the sun while they watched Sylar cough up the bullet as the skin on his chest knit itself neatly back together.

"You're…you're a special…" he murmured in awe as Sylar dusted himself off and stood up. "…just like her…"

Sylar gave him a hard look; the gun was no longer trained on him. "Her?"

The boy opened his mouth to answer, but he was distracted by the sounds of gunshots from outside. "We have to go," he said instead before dashing out towards the door.

"Wait—" Sylar followed suit, stuffing the gummy bears and sunflower seeds into his pocket while readying his gun. Outside, they were greeted by several walkers, which they wasted no time in taking down, but there were plenty more coming down the street—too many for them to take on with a rifle and handgun.

"They should be here by now," the boy mumbled.

"Who?" Sylar asked. "Who should be here?"

His question went unanswered as the boy reloaded his gun and ran back and forth along the street like he was looking for something in the distance. A sudden grin and whoop meant he found it. Sylar joined the boy in the street and saw a truck heading their direction; it looked to be camouflaged, though what good that did, he wasn't sure. The lower half was covered in metal plates that allowed the driver to barrel through walkers like they were nothing more than tumbleweeds. The boy was impatiently waving, but the closer the truck got, the closer the walkers got. Sylar kept shooting, and the boy joined him, taking out just enough to put them in the clear for a few minutes.

The truck pulled up next to them, and the window rolled down. A redheaded woman in her forties wearing a pair of aviators greeted them with a grim expression.

"Abhay, what the hell you think you're doin'?" she scolded in a strong southern accent. "You know them gunshots make the boys and girls go crazy."

"It wasn't me, Ma, I swear!" the boy replied. He was quick to throw Sylar under the bus. "It was this guy!"

The woman directed her attention to Sylar. She lowered her aviators to the tip of her nose and asked, "Who are you?"

"Name's Gabriel," he answered quickly, noting the close proximity of the living dead. "I'm traveling alone. I'm low on gas and supplies, and I'd appreciate some company…if you're willing."

She seriously scanned him up and down in all of three seconds before saying, "Sure! Y'all hop on now real quick!"

The boy—Abhay, apparently—obeyed and ran around the back of the truck; hands reached out to help him in. Sylar sprinted back to his motorcycle by the gas station, grabbed his few possessions in a handful from his storage compartment, shot a walker that got too close, and ran back. The truck had an open back with only a tailgate to keep them closed in. It was lowered for the moment to let him on. Abhay, to his surprise, offered a hand. Sylar grinned and took it, and they closed the tailgate behind him as they sped off.

There were four other people besides Abhay and himself, and Sylar gave each a nod before the woman in the front seat distracted them; there was a small open window between her front seat and the back.

"Alright, who wants to do the honors?"

She held up what looked like a homemade remote control with several wires sticking out of a piece of metal and a large button in the middle. Abhay was the first to jump up and reach for the remote, a mischievous grin on his face. The watchmaker in Sylar was intrigued.

"What is that?"

Abhay smiled. "Look out the back. You'll see."

Sylar arched his eyebrows but did as he was told. The town was increasing in distance. Abhay flipped a switch and paused before pressing the large button. Sylar was shocked as he watched a series of explosions destroy the town from its surrounding perimeter. Most importantly, it took most of the walkers with it.

Abhay let out a loud whoop and the others in the truck cheered. Sylar shook his head in amazement, and he looked to the boy, who smirked.

"So, where you from, bhai?"

Sylar chuckled, adrenaline and joy intertwining. What had he just gotten himself into? "Queens, little man."

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><p><strong>So I don't know how accurate the Hindi terms are. I tried to double check as much as possible. So please don't be offended! I know nothing about Hindi! But, 'bhai' most commonly means 'brother.' Thanks for reading! Please review! <strong>


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